Battles
by Katzenherrin
Summary: There are different kind of battles throughout one's life. They are fighting their own. Victory can taste like defeat. But sometimes, defeat is the sweetest of victories... Grown-up Sakura /FOM Kakashi
1. Sakura

**Authoress Notes: **

Second incursion into the wondrous world of KakaSaku. Prompted by the buttload of ficage I've been reading. (ADVERTISING: UNDERNEATH THE UNDERNEATH ANONYMOUS CHALLENGE over at the KakaSaku Comm at LJ. Go there. DO IT!)

Since my drawing stage is on hold this week, due to lack of TIME, and this baby banging on the inside of my brain coming, I had to type this out in the small pauses I managed to squeeze between my crazy schedule, and decided to share the first part. This will be a two shot. POV play.

**Rating**: M

**Summary:** There are different kind of battles throughout one's life. They are fighting their own. Victory can taste like defeat. But sometimes defeat is the sweetest of victories...

**Disclaimer:** I own nothing but two very sweet Kakashi plushies. 3

* * *

_**Battles**_

* * *

We're alive.

It's that rush of adrenaline that fills me now, as I feel the rough breath scratch my throat.  
I feel winded. The breeze that suddenly picked up, the feeling of it hitting my face is exquisite.  
The throbs of my heart are felt in every little scratch, every sore muscle.  
We're alive.  
It paints a smile on my lips.  
Victorious, glad, overwhelmed, exhilarated, insane, you, you, you.

My eyes wander to the side, where you are, walking beside me.

Dirty, bloodied, and I'm still smiling. I know your wounds are minimal. I know more than half the blood isn't yours. As the one that decorates my uniform in splatters isn't mine.  
We're alive.

I want to laugh, and scream, and jump up with this liquid rush of something too strong that courses through my veins.  
That something that is warm, no, scorching, filling me up with strength and weakness.  
We're freaking alive, and this feeling keeps burning me.  
And my eyes can't seem to be able to go anywhere else but you, you.

'_You._'

"We're alive." I state, and my voice has a slightly higher pitch than usual. It sounds as insane as I feel.  
You nod and the smile upturns the corner of your lips slightly.

I can see it, only that corner, because the black cotton that usually covers your face has been broken, severed, and the moon, in a silver slit of light allows me now to see a peak of it: not like the glance I caught in the midst of battle, filling me up with awe and shock and fear because that kunai had been a little too close.

_It had hit her with the same force as the punch that had landed on her side, making her turn around, and use the momentum of the motion to throw her chakra charged fist directly at the enemy's chest, before her head whipped back to look for him again. To make sure that what she had seen was in fact true, and not a trick of her mind._

The thought races through my mind: how the hell can you keep the severed cotton from falling completely off your face?

Your pigment-less hair is also bloodied, splotches of red that seem even darker when in that bed of silver that falls over your face, hitae-ate missing, ripped: I know it's inside your waist pouch.

I keep watching you. Taking you in. Taking in that glimpse of a smile.

My skin prickles with an intense inner warmness. Like I have come down with a fever. Maybe it's shock. Maybe I am entering shock, and the simple idea makes me want to laugh now, but I seem unable to: I only chuckle darkly. It rattles my breath and my chest.  
My hands fist at my sides, and I realise it isn't stopping.

All that blood, all those screams, all those wheezing sounds of almost there hits of sharp deliverers of death that passed close to my ears, so damned close but never hitting, and I am alive and you're alive. And we are alive and I can't believe it.

Dancing from but giving away death.

The remembrance of your fit body crouching, leg outwards in a swipe, tripping the enemy - the clenching bicep as you deliver sharp death to the enemy's chest - the haunting chirp of a thousand birds, lighting the last moment before the poor soul that has had the misfortune to engage in battle with you is given a quick death - and that feeling, that warm feeling of blood splatter seems to overrule me again.

Born within my loins and steadily going lower. Bleeding. Running. Pulsing.  
The friction of my thighs as we walk making me laugh now, not chuckle, not suppressed.  
I keep laughing because I know I will moan if I stop it.  
It's wrong, so wrong, deliciously wrong and my eyes half close as I look ahead, my head tilting to one side, and the smile on my lips hurts me.

And like blood from a wound, full of life, and warm and slipping between a seam of flesh, I feel myself pulse and drip. And clench, and I continue laughing because, right now it just hits me as being so ridiculous.

Ridiculous and right and... logic. Flawless logic.

It's want. It's a mechanism. It's normal. Standard.

It would happen, even if there was another at my side... It's the deeply ingrained survival instinct, the proliferation of the species.

_It isn't. _  
_It's that hidden feeling that runs rampant without restraint, because she is too wired up with sensation to keep them tamed. _  
_Overload. _  
_That evolving feeling, __**'I'm a good student, just watch me!'**__, fast forward, '__**thank you for saying what I need you to'**__, fast forward, __**'thank you for being there for me'**__, fast forward, __**'look at me, I'm here damn it!', **__fast forward, __**'stop saving me because I'm weak, save me because I mean something!',**__ fast forward, __**'I'm strong now, **__**look **__**at **__**me**__**!'**__ fast forward, __**'Let me in'**__. Fast forward..._  
_._  
_._  
_._  
_**'I love you'**__. _

My legs stop moving for some reason. My slit eyesight suddenly seems to clear, as I look at a sole black-grey eye frowning at me.  
Scar, left eyelid closed, corner of your lips, which move because you're talking to me.  
The rattles on my chest don't stop, you shake me, and my mind realises your hands are over my bare shoulders. I can feel the rough calloused fingers peeking from the black leather that encloses your palms.  
It's rough, the touch, but instead of snapping my mind away from the shock... it enhances it.  
I squirm under that touch, because I want it. More more, more.

My hands come up, in wholehearted automatic mode. They want to feel. My eyes keep watching your lone onyx one, your frown deepens for seconds. Confused, because now I realise my hands are sliding over your chest, up, up, the flak jacket gone, so it's lean musculature under them, only separated by a thin layer of cotton. Up, up, until the pads of my fingertips reach the beginning of your neck. Spread fingers: I feel the strong heartbeat under my middle right fingertip as I reach your pulse point.

I'm not laughing any more.  
Your jaw slacks minimally: lips parted maybe...? Moving.  
And probably you're asking me something, but only the sound of my own lust seems to reach my ears. From within.  
You're probably trying to ask me something, but I don't listen, as my hands slide upwards cupping your jaw.  
You're probably trying to push me away with your hands on my shoulders, but I don't let you.

Transfixed, ensnared. I really want to rip that already tattered piece of cotton and feel the vibrations of your words with my fingertips. Against my bare lips.

My breathing is rapid, compared to your composed puffs of breath that fan across my face, warm, tickling whatever skin they are able to slide across.  
My heaving covered chest, constricted against my pushed together arms, swells: my left thumb swiping over the little piece of uncovered skin.

Soft stubble.

Corner of those lips.

I make no sudden move to push the fabric aside: I simply enjoy this new piece of visual information, of sensory discovery.

My eyelids flutter, as my hands can feel your jaw move, my eyes catch the telltale motion under black cotton as words come out, your breath carrying them to me, and I realise what you're saying.

"...you're in shock. Stop that."

My eyes snap up to yours, and within that aloof darkness, in that never-ending darkness of charcoal and onyx I see something dancing. Or maybe it's just the reflection of my own. That fire inside that is curling on the pit of my stomach, on the seam of what I am, making me pulse and feel like something is missing. My skin up in goosebumps, tugging as if it's reaching out for you.

For contact.  
Any kind of contact.

My touch spreads out from your jaw, within hairline, as I feel the pale locks running between my fingers, kissing the sensitive skin between them, and again my eyelids flutter. The jolt of feeling whips through my arms, and my back arches.

"We're alive..." I whisper, raspy and even the sound of arousal in my voice is enough to push it even further. My front all but collides with yours, as I rub myself upwards, almost on tiptoes, hands in fistfuls of your hair, and the friction, the closeness, your own warmth is enough to intoxicate me.

It takes me two seconds flat, to realise the hands on my shoulders are sliding over my arms, and my spine stays in that arched position, taut muscles. It's almost as if I can crawl inside you, as the feeling of smooth leather climbs my skin, and the grazes of your fingertips on the inside of my arms make my nipples as taut as my muscles, rebelling against my brassiere.

My face gravitates closer to yours, you're speaking again, and yet again I disregard it, because I am mourning the loss of your sliding touch: your hands reach my elbows and totally bypass my forearms, clenching at my wrists. Your tight fingers on them burn me. I sense motion from you, so before you have the opportunity to pry my hands off, I press my lips to your covered ones. Forcefully: the friction of the damned fabric I didn't pull down bothering and yet teasing me. The feeling on the corner of my lip, as it presses against yours, promising so much more than the warmness of your covered skin.

I try to pull my right hand out of your grasp to be able to tug it down, to feel your lips fully against mine.  
Something, anything, I need to feel some sort of contact.

I saw people die today.  
I saw dreams being ripped from writhing bodies.  
I myself carved pain, and reaped some of those dreams.

_He could have died, and she would never see him again._

_She could have died, and she would never feel him against her.__  
_

So easily, automatic. Robotic, unfeeling. Precise and cold.  
I don't want that coldness any more. I want warmth, your warmth, but you keep your hold on my wrists. Worst, you gather both of them between us and push me back, making me stagger.

"Sakura, stop that."

Your voice is raspy, low. Do you have any idea of what it does to me? Your eye roams over mine, squint look. Your chest moves slightly faster than usual, and even if you say that...

That lone eye is telling me something, isn't it? Or do I want it to?  
You shake me again and release my wrists that I cradle against my heaving chest.

The pang of rejection fills me.

Why do I want to have you in me so much? Even after this, even knowing full well this is just an instinctual reaction...  
Why do I want to feel your bared lips against mine, on my chest, on the soft skin of the inside of my thighs...?

The pang of rejection hits me, hurts me, and like a wounded dog, I attack.

My arms fall at my sides, as I smile. You're still watching me, weary, eyebrows slightly creasing. And the throbbing, that relentless throbbing between my trembling legs ('when did they start trembling?' I wonder for a mere second), is still fuelling my streak of rashness.

"Stop?" I put as much venom as I can compile at the moment, even if the smile stays on my lips, and my head tilts ever so slightly to the side. Your expression is impassive. It's almost like I'm not even here. It hurts. It shouldn't hurt this much. Nothing should. "No thank you."

I watch as your eye squints further. I pulse, and my lip curls in contempt. Damn it. It must be your fault somehow; this feeling that is raking through my body. I hate you.

_No, she doesn't._

I continue: "If you aren't willing, there are others who will."

Silence. The wind blows. My breath is still heavy.

Your eyebrows crease to a full frown level. Your jaw clenches. And that lone black eye shines, with something I identify as... anger.

My heart stutters (stops?) and, am I hurt? I am. And sad. I need to get away. I can't take it anymore, looking at you looking at me like that. Because, God damn you, I still want you. Only you. Why?

It takes everything in me to turn around. I do, and my leg gives the first step away from you, with the heavy foreshadow of this being the end of so much more than this conversation. It is the end of that little hope I harboured for a stronger kind of "us".

I admit it now.

It's the end of your eye-creasing smiles and light banter when we are together. The end of the "us" we had. And, as my heart plummets to my stomach I blame you-no. I blame myself for letting my treacherous body betray me like that.  
I blame my tongue for slipping those words.  
I blame myself for ruining that which you gave me, in my desperate want for something more.

It surprises me when I feel a hand grab my left wrist: your hand, almost yanking me off my feet to follow behind you. Your strides are purposeful, strong and long, and I find myself tripping over my boots to try and keep up.

My heart races and I don't know what to expect. I am pushed against a wall before I have time to catch my mind. And I let it slip through my proverbial searching fingers, as your left forearm presses vertically against the wall behind me, followed by the right one that still holds my wrist, pinning it to the wall beside my shoulder, caging me. You're so close. So close.

I pulse. My heart skips a beat.  
Your eye roams mine. Predatory? Suspicious? Conflicted. Intense.

You whisper something, rasp, but my thundering heart prevents me from decoding the vocalized pattern into words I can understand. I can only stare at your eyes: yes, because the red sharingan pierces me, with that conflicted look. A wave of arousal fills me, rising higher.

Because you are close, because you are touching me, because you are looking at me, because a few moments ago I thought I had lost you, because I want you, you, you... My lips dry with my frantic breathing, my eyebrows crease and my free hand rises up to grab the side of your shirt at your waist, pulling, feeling the fabric yield under my fingernails, wrapped around my fingers as I tug at it. I demand more closeness. My body demands it, in cramps that surge on my lower region.

Your knee presses between my legs, and they open in a wordless invitation. The strong flesh of your upper thigh pushes against the middle of my parted members, and my eyelids flutter as my body moves in automatic, abdominal muscles clenching to change the angle so I can rub myself on the warmth there. The hand on my left wrist pushes it up on the rough surface of the wall, over my head: I can hear the scratching sound of the leather that shields your knuckles. I can hear your breath itch; I can feel the pressure that grabs a hold on the middle of my chest. I feel so light-headed, and yet completely alert.

"...Don't do this to me."

I can hear yours words, said with a lower tone than the one I am used to, and it does wondrous, tortuous things to me. I don't answer; I wouldn't know what to anyway. My hips sway again in a rub, doing very little to calm the clenching of my inner walls: it only ignites the hot liquid fire that starts at the pit of my being. Your free hand, the one not grabbing my wrist comes down over the wall, to slide on my neck, not rough but strong.

It rips a forced exhale from my lips.

Spread hold, curling fingers that reach the back of my neck, before your thumb slides over my earlobe in a pressed caress and your fingers' hold shift on my skin: that same thumb slides over my cheek and down to hover at the corner of my lips.

"Don't do this to me Sakura..." The warmth of closeness turns into the warmth of touch. Caressing my upper lip, I feel the flesh yield under your touch. "I can't..." Reaching the opposite corner from where you began, and sliding now on my lower one. I can't stop looking at your eyes. "We can't..." Your voice sounds so broken, defeated, vulnerable and yet strong with longing, and I almost can't believe it. Your thumb catches the moist on the inner lining of my bottom lip, as you again roll it to slide over my upper lip, that moistness making me crave for yours on them.

I need it. I really need it.

Your thumb stills, pressed vertically on the middle of my lips, and your eyes close. I blink, as I sense the tension in your body; every part of you that touches me is high strung. Your eyebrows are fully creased, pained looking expression marring your features.

You are fighting it.

I can't let you. This is one battle I won't let you win.

"Take me."

Your breath stops. The hold on my wrist tightens for seconds.

"Take me..." I am asking, commanding, demanding and pleading.

Your shaken exhale wafts across my face. I see your head shaking minimally. I sway my hips against your thigh again, grinding myself on you, the hand fisting your shirt pulling it. My still bound wrist fights for freedom; my palm tickles with the need to burry in your hair because, as your leg moves to reply to the motion of my hips, a soft little groan escapes your lips, and it's the damned most sensual sound I ever heard in my life. My tongue slides to press a lick over the skin of your thumb. And your eyes snap open, looking directly at my mouth.

"Take me Kakashi…" I whisper out, before my tongue grazes your skin again, and I can see your mismatched eyes glazing over for seconds before you close them again tightly, and I feel the relieving of pressure on my wrist, against my lips, and between my legs.

You are moving away. I can't let you. I don't even see as your hands press against the wall at my sides for you to push yourself away from me.

My hand fisting your shirt leaves it, and in a quick motion I slide it inside, feeling muscles that contract as the back of my hand slides over your skin – the roughened peak of a masculine nipple almost makes me forget what I am aiming for – the material stretching as it snakes between you and the high turtleneck, makeshift mask, and hooking my fingers on the edge of it, pulling down to uncover your lips, and for me to bring you closer.

It's a clash of lips and teeth, and I barely manage to contain a moan from escaping my chest; it rolls deep in my throat. I don't know where your hands are, I don't care if I didn't even take my time to see your face. Your taste teases me in a rough exhale that I pull in an inhale to fill my mouth and my taste buds; your scent fills my nostrils like never before – and it's beyond wonderful.

My now free hand finally reached its destination and I fist it on your messy silver locks, pulling you even closer as I tilt my head for the sake of angling my lips over yours, my tongue shooting out with all the desperation I'm feeling.

Sliding past your lips to search for your own tongue, that remains unresponsive at the first flick of mine. I continue moving, frantic: you're still not moving towards me, but you are not moving away either. You are still fighting, but I won't let you win. Not this battle… not like this. Not this time. If you are to fight with me, fight inside me. I really don't care, and the selfishness of this act will probably haunt me later: but I need you. To hell with propriety, to hell with age, to hell with status and society's rules.

This is simply another rescue I ask of you. You always save me from every danger, even if I don't ask you to. Well, I am asking now: I am in serious danger of going mad if you don't take me here, against this wall, after a battle, in the middle of a deserted alley, in the middle of the night.

I say these words without vocalizing, as my tongue slides over the edge of your upper teeth, tickling your palate to dive down to yours again, and try and coax it into moving against mine.

I say it as my hand, the one that slid inside your shirt, cups your jaw in a clawed caress; as the other runs and fists over the slightly rough locks, dusty from battle.

I say it as my hips move towards you, rubbing, it's not enough, my leg rises and my foot locks on the inside of your leg, the angle of my core now a little more satisfying than before.

_She is fighting with all the strength one uses when fighting for one's life, but...  
_

_So is he._

_...TBC  
_

_

* * *

_

Chapter Two will come shortly._  
_


	2. Kakashi

**Authoress Notes: **

Second and last chapter. Came a little sooner than I expected. Probably because it has been haunting me in my sleep. D:

SHAME ON ME.

I said in the previous authoress notes: POV play. Which means, while the first was on our very own Cherry Blossom's POV... this one is from Kakashi's POV. Hope to rise up to the occasion. +ahem+

Thanks to all that reviewed and put this on story alert: it's due to the feedback that this slid out my fingers so rapidly.

Lot's of love and virtual-cookies.

**Rating**: M (this rating makes oh! so much sense now... . )

**Summary:** There are different kind of battles throughout one's life. They are fighting their own. Victory can taste like defeat. But sometimes defeat is the sweetest of victories...

**Disclaimer:** Not mine.

* * *

_**Battles - Part Two of Two - Kakashi  
**_

* * *

Yes…

No.

Yes…

No..!

Don't do this to me.

Don't do this to us.

This isn't supposed to happen. Not now. I am too weary and tired and filled with the satisfaction of having eluded death once more, with you by my side.

I am thrown off balance, as the feelings whiplash against my sore muscles: the constant thrum of my less than honourable thoughts about what you would feel like (under, over, around me), suddenly leaping to the front of my mind with too much force for me to drown them out efficiently. Like I always do.

This equation where the end result always spells disaster in big flashing letters is jumbled: have I really been so blind?

Or was it simply a countermeasure of my mind, to keep my control in check when around you?

You want me. You looked into my eyes, your emeralds glazed with a shining veil of unsuppressed want, which my body recognizes and acts upon without my consciousness' mediation.

You are not supposed to feel this way. You are not supposed to want me.

That line should have never been crossed by me in the first place.

I feel like I just took a step on a non-existent patch of ground. And I can't leap away, skirt away, or use my chakra to dodge the hit.

I scramble to put my defences up. To keep them up. They waver. The Infamous Copy-Nin: I'm failing. I am fighting and God, I will continue fighting because…

My name...

Sakura…

Damn it.

…Don't do this to us.

We can't go back if this continues.

You can't say my name like that, with those words attached to them.

I need to move away…—I am stilled in shock.

Those words coat your tongue with sweet desperation, that tongue that now slides inside my mouth and I can't stand it. You overload my senses, and my thought pattern scatters, as I am rendered to something too akin to stupidity.

I barely manage to keep my control; I can only see you. My eyelids close again. It's a reaction fuelled by idiocy, I realise belatedly: for with the lack of that sense, all others rise up to compensate and I drown in you.

Even on the screen of my closed eyelids, I still see that longing for me in your eyes. It's burnt in my mind's eye.

It has filled my dreams, pushing me to the edge of insanity. It's more beautiful than my imagination provided… I am a devious, perverse, unworthy man. You were my student. I can't… and yet… it's exactly what I want.

My name dripping from your lips like that.

Just like that.

Or lower. Breathless… Hoarse… Screamed—no. Stop that.

Shameful.

I shouldn't have lost control: I shouldn't have let the idea of anyone else touching you anger me so much. I have no business wanting you. I need to reign in my self-control.

My hands stay still over the wall, as I can feel every single one of the mental equivalents of that rough surface I clench my fists against fall apart: those walls that have taken me so long to rise up around myself, since the very time I first felt the clench on my chest when looking at you smile at me.

The new sensation that sprouted, as your hands lay over a fresh wound, feeling your chakra slide soothingly in every fiber of my being; when you chide me for not being careful.

Since the very first time I felt the bite of jealousy when you smiled at others in a way I am sure would melt even me, if I was the one that upward tilt of your lips was meant to.

Since I found out that someone had already experienced the warmth of your loving embrace, seen your face as you rise up in climax.

Since the very first time you slid into my dreams, since the protagonists of the already worn out copies of Icha Icha morphed into a beautiful pink haired, jade colour eyed temptress.

Since the first time I realised you were not a child anymore: that you grew into this brilliant kunoichi, this more than competent medic…

This powerful companion, this equal, this… woman. This beautiful woman.

Fortified walls, that crumble, dilapidated by your gentle desperation, by the taste of you against my lips, tickling in slides over my own tongue; by the tortuous acknowledgement of similar moist sipping through to the fabric that covers my upper thigh, as you rub against me.

The pleasurable tingle that borders pain as you tug at my hair, pulling, the hand that clenches over my neck and cheek: I am sure they will leave crescent shapes behind them.

The warmth of your skin against my chest. That leg that curls around mine, your scent that swirls around me like opium, trying to make me forget, and remember, and just surrender—no, I can't relinquish my control like this.

I can't…!

_His body rebel__s against him, even if he desperately fights against the sensations. His skin warms at the relentless touches of her tongue, of the swaying of her hips, of the little sounds he tries to muffle out with the logical streak of his analytical mind. His heart is drumming against his ribcage, his own hips are fighting to move. So do his lips. And his tongue._

I am stronger than this. I am wiser than this. I can see where this will lead to: the scenarios have replayed in my mind, over and over, time and time again, since the very first time it hit me. Since the small devious part of my brain whispered to me like a damning siren: _'you want her'_. I was always able to silence it. Because you were Sakura, and Sakura doesn't want her ex-sensei, fourteen years her senior.

Why did you have to ruin this carefully elaborated equation?

I can't do this.

Not for me. I couldn't give a damn about what people talk behind my back. I have outgrown it. Let them say what they will. But it will destroy you…you.

Oh God, you.

I can feel the groan that desperately seems to want out.

I don't want to want you to stop.

I want to forget all the reasons why I shouldn't give in to you.

Why I shouldn't let you embrace me… Why I shouldn't allow myself to be embraced.

I am reduced to this, pleading for you to stop. Wanting you to continue.

Wanting to embrace you and revel in the scent of you, in your warmness, let my tongue slide in every little crevice of your smooth curves, mapping every dip, in the realization of those dreams where your voice echoes in screams around us, as I drown in you, slide in you, feel every inch of you…

Your hand slides, cupping my face, to my neck, pushing me closer and my jaw moves on its own accord.

Once.

Don't moan that brokenly…

Twice.

I've never felt so weak. I never felt so empowered either.

The friction of my lips against yours—and your hips move again and rub against **me**, jolting my tongue into action, swirling once around yours.

_His own engorged with veins desire is weeping for her. For the embrace of hot walls of comfort and pleasure and completion._

_Want knows nothing of rules. _

_It simply__** is**__. And demands like a petulant infant._

My hands snap to your face as I break the connection of saliva coated lips, bringing our foreheads together. I try to gather as much breath as I can, feeling my lungs burn with the lack of oxygen I forgot to take in. I think I'm shaking. This is ridiculous. I am a grown man. I should have better control than this…

"Kakashi…"

Heavy with longing, breathless and pleading. It makes my heart thump violently inside my chest; it makes my blood run faster… it makes me acknowledge I can't run away.

While my mind tried to save us both from this, your body has already taken mine hostage.

No. Damn it! My mind swirls in a string of expletives I wish I could rasp out. I am losing.

I let a breath out, as shaky as I feel, as my eyebrows crease and my eyes remain closed. My hands cradle your face as if you're made of the finest porcelain. Precious. As if…? No. Because you are precious. Because what I feel is so much more than lust.

Still…I can't pull you down with me. I am old, and broken, and you deserve something better.

"I'm old." I need you to understand. I am tired of fighting. I can't fight against you. Please, see what I see. Please, fight alongside me.

"I know." It almost makes me laugh for some reason. Your hands mimic mine, the arm against the skin of my chest moving.

"People won't understand." I try to reason. Your elbow grazes my erect nipple and, like it never did, the sensation spreads throughout me with uncanny force. It robs my breath. It makes me wonder what else you will be able to rip out of my throat.

"I don't care." Both your thumbs move softly against my cheekbones, following a line parallel to my ear; I can hear the soft scrapping of the day's stubble against your skin. It sounds so intimate.

You sound too sane. You sound too damned sane, even as your body moves against me, now minimally, in mere echoes of the desperation before.

Everything I do backfires, like a badly conceived plan.

My leg that had breached between yours only fuelled you instead of waking you from what I thought were instinct and shock before.

My words only make your touch turn gentler, longing, and I can try to fight against aggressiveness: it's easier to fight against rashness. It's easier to be angry at myself for wanting you. It's easier to be angry at you for meeting me across that line that society thrusts upon us, if you attack like a lioness in search for prey.

But saying my name like that, touching me like this, wanting me…

Your gentleness, as your hands keep caressing my face, your breath that tickles the lower portion of it allied with the latent salaciousness of your leg now moving over my side, the ambivalence of raw want and intense caring is too much for me.

I am not losing, I realise. Belated epiphany: I was already lost the first moment you touched me tonight.

I can feel more than hear the rasped curse word that slips from my lips. I am about to chastise myself for saying it, in this situation of them all, when…

…one of your hands cupping my face slide inside my hair – the scrapping of your nails on my scalp eliciting goosebumps that spread in a spider's web pattern over the entirety of my back — fisting and pulling me back for my eyes to meet your emerald ones, half lid, fully tempting;

… the other slides down, following my neck, thumb swipe over the sweaty skin of my collarbone before it dives down over my left pectoral, for your fingertips to skim over that abused nipple, one at a time in rapid succession before your thumb meets it;

… your leg around mine strengthens its hold, your hips swaying in a deep roll against me, the decadently arousing warmth of your covered core against my hardened length;

… and you respond to it, in a deep whisper, the word dripping from your shining swollen lips with the consistency of honey:

"…me."

I am a perverse, unworthy, wicked, lost man: the padlocks of my restraint shatter.

Lust roars inside my veins, like some ancient all encompassing monster.

My hands snap into action: one sliding within those roseate locks I am so damned fond of, spread hold as I cup the back of your head, and pull you closer. The other coming to the skin of the thigh of your leg draped over my side — I curse my fingerless glove as the skin of my fingertips mocks the one of my enclosed in leather palm, revelling in the softness of it — sliding until I hook it on the back of your knee, pulling it to me, as my hips ground against you, in the same way my lips collide with yours, having the soundtrack of a groan from me and an excited little moan from you, trapped between the moist caverns, playground for our writhing together tongues.

I am defeated: greedy with my hands, greedy for your body, and the force with which you respond to me quiets every single thought that was once bounding my mind and my body. I would be ashamed if that feeling was an option.

It isn't. The instinctual animalistic part of my brain takes over; bypassing everything I can call logic, cheered on by you, melting against me.

It's a flurry of motions and sounds and scents I almost lose track of.

Your teeth that nip at my lips, after yours entrap my tongue in a suctioned caress connecting with my lower region, which demands similar moistness and feeling.

Your hand, thumbnail previously treating my nipple and skin with nearly hurting scrapes, slides around me to claw at my back, leaving behind red parallel trails; they burn with the sweat that starts to slide down the expanse of them.

Your other hand doesn't leave my hair, be it in pulls that I realise I truly enjoy almost sadistically, or in caresses that rip low hoarse sounds from my throat.

My hand over your hair slides down between us to pull the zipper that keeps your shirt together, parting teeth zinging with my haste, reaching the hem of your shirt, fingers sliding up feeling the slick with sweat burning skin of your torso, fingertips hitting and pushing fabric up to bundle over your breasts, for me to meet the soft roundness of your breast, teasing the rough peak with the leather cladding my palm—damn it, I need to take it off.

That sweet scent that I have come to identify as simply you, envelopes my sense of smell, now bulked up with another one that almost makes my eyes roll back inside my eyelids: floral, sweat, blood and arousal in a devastating combination.

The groping caress on the sensitive skin of your breast makes your neck arch back, breaking our lips' frantic motions: my eyes open as I am adamant in seeing your expression, in committing it to memory with every little detail my sharingan can store.

Your flushed cheeks, your lips shining with the combination of both our saliva, swollen and red; parted in a soundless sound that remains trapped inside your throat.

Beautiful.

Gorgeous.

Your eyes open, barely managing half mast, and I see the request there before it moves past your lips in a plead.

"Please…" Your hand slides to my lips, your eyes following the motion of your pressed caress over them, framed by creasing eyebrows, that make you look all the more desperate, and pained, and so incredibly tempting, before coming back to mine. "Please Kakashi…"

How do you do it? How can you push me even further, when I think I can't want you more than I already do?

My hand loses the almost bruising hold on your leg, and I move my hips back minimally, as, with all the dexterity of my fingers, I pull the skirt up, feeling the fabric bunch on the skin past my wrist: damn it, I realise my glove is still on, and I don't want to feel you through it. I hesitate for a second, two at most, before my hand comes up to my face, and I bite down on the edge of my glove, pushing it off my sweaty palm.

It falls between us, as your eyes widen and darken even further in desire.

Cut scenes:

My hand snaps down, fabric easily avoided, fingertips over the skin of your abdomen, lower, you're so warm, lower, soft curled hair, moist, your breath gets caught inside you, lower, I burry a groan on your neck, my lips parted, tongue sliding out to taste the complex taste you carry, lower, my fingers shake and encounter the silken soaked folds of your body and a gasped moan meets my ears. My middle and forefinger roll in that hotness, and the coil of desire wrapped tightly around the base of my spine fuels my tongue that slides upward on your neck, teeth entrapping your earlobe. I forget to breathe.

_What glorious sight. She rises her leg, bent, her heel hooking in__ the space of a missing brick on the wall her shoulder blades are pressed against, and her leg opens outwards to receive his touch, her hips lash towards the hand hidden inside her clothes, on the apex of her body as she holds on to him in pure unleashed want. There is no turning back. The battle of wills is over. A new one arises, battleground of sweaty skin that procures more contact. A mindless search for completion in each other. _

Rising downfall. My engorged desire claims the feeling my fingers revel in.

"More…" You rasp out, and I can only comply, a slick finger sliding inside you. I can't really track the owner of the sounds that echo around us, as my face rubs sideways against yours, until our lips meet again, in a poor excuse for a proper kiss. It's a messy jumble of licking tongues outside the privacy of our mouths.

Heavy breathing, thumping hearts, sways of hips and another finger joins inside the clenching walls of your womanhood.

"More…!" You groan again, between pants, demanding now, and I am thrown off track for a moment, before you make it painfully clear: one of your hands snaps down to my own pelvis, and you grab me over the already constricted fabric of my pants, as the other slides from inside my shirt, and tugs at the side of your shorts as your leg comes down.

My fingers slide from within you, not without a feeling of loss, my hips move towards your hand, but it moves away, and I hear the feeble sound of unzipping your fingers fumble to accomplish. I throb at the sensation of your fingers so close. My moist hand slides to help yours in the tugging down of your shorts: I angle my body, bending for my hand to bring the stretchy black material close to your knee. The pseudo osculation is broken, but my lips don't lose contact, they slide over your chin, neck, collarbone as I bend lower and feel your leg flex for the fabric to slide over your booted shin and foot. And the hand that was in the process of freeing my aching member snaps to my shoulder for support.

Your scent is stronger now and it makes me growl, as my mouth closes in on a perk nipple. Your shorts along with underwear are no longer an obstacle. The hand on my shoulder slides inside my hair again, your hand cupping the back of my head pulling me up. The roughened moist nipple slides from my lips, as I let you guide me upwards after a flick of my tongue, scattering kisses over your chest and neck before I come face to face with you again, your eyes boring into mine.

You're anxious.

I'm… nervous. It's ridiculous. I feel like a pubescent virgin boy. I have dreamt about this… so many times…

My hand slides over your leg, that I realise is bent, having some sort of leverage to keep it so, to the point of your thigh creating a right angle with your torso. I let my bare hand slide over the curve of your hip as I step closer, and your eyes keep glued to mine. I can't look away.

"Sakura…" It's a whisper, as I feel your free hand sliding between us to palm my fully erect member, once over clothing, my breath itches, my own hand moves over your thigh, to meet your parted and exposed lower lips, as your fingers slide inside my unzipped pants, snaking inside my underwear, and touching me. Skin on skin, fisting the throbbing flesh, freeing me from fabric and suddenly sliding in a stroke, which makes me loose focus on your face. My eyes roll back inside my eyelids, my other hand clasps itself on your side at your waist, before my body falls against yours, and our lips meet again in an uncoordinated kiss.

Both our wrists are pressed against each other, trapped between us. I pulse in an upward tilt, almost as if my member is aware of the inviting moistness of your core, and reaches out for it. That same moistness against my fingers, that move in a teasing motion over your quivering entrance, before I move them: they roll around your wrist and pull it from between us, making you relinquish your hold on my own sex, before my fingers slide upwards to twine them with yours, and bring your hand to the wall, at your head level. Panted breath from both of us, mingling between our parted lips.

Anticipation.

My hips roll, legs bent slightly; trembling muscles. Breath is refused to us both.

Shock.

You kiss me, tongue-less mouth of silky lips, over the blunt tip of my desire, that nudges you softly, your breath escapes as you part for me slowly, involving me in more and more incredibly moist tightness.

Pressure.

Of your fingers clinging to mine, of my hand on your waist, of your own on my hair, of my forehead against yours, of my entry within you. Of your walls around me. Slowly, painfully slow.

Of our pelvises as they connect, and I reach the very bottom of you.

Hot and clenching and throbbing. Wet, slick and moist.

I release my breath, you shakily take it in.

Roll.

Of my hips, and yours against me, as if I can get any deeper. Buried inside.

Of tongues, for mine lashes and your meets mine half way.

Friction.

As I move out—slowly—in. Once. Twice.

As tongues move languorously against each other, softer and rougher side of them.

Sound.

Of our breathing, of our moans, and groans, or whatever you call this vocalized language we are using, a whole new lexicon built upon pleasure.

Of my entry inside you, sinful little wet notes: writing a symphony where we are the instruments.

Again. Roll, Friction, Sound.

Fiercer. Roll, Friction, Sound.

Harder. Roll, Friction, Sound.

It repeats, building into a crescendo of sensation.

It jumbles, and melts together.

Just like we do.

You claw at me, your voice rising with every thrust of my hips. Our lips part, and I look at you, again starved for your expression. For the flutter of your eyelids, for the pleasure filled frown on your flushed face, the harsh panting that slides between your lips.

The way your body climbs up the wall at each push inside you— the way your pink locks get caught in the rough surface of it— and you whimper and I groan along with you, as quietly as I can, for I want to commit your sounds to memory as well.

My muscles stiffen, and your thighs quiver: so do your walls around me, and like a loving milking hand, they suddenly clench around me as your breath, sounds and body ceases up. For a second.

Heartstopping.

It's the most gorgeous sight I have ever come across in all my life. Then, as quick as time stopped, it continues, spilling haphazardly like the sand from a broken hourglass.

The feeling building on my lower body suddenly explodes within me — with only the forewarning of the skin of my sack tightening — and I spill myself within your madly undulating body, your hoarse scream – my name – ringing in my ears. All the little control we had is sent to hell as we ride the wave that came over us both, mine triggered by yours.

I press you against that wall; and myself in a rolled grind inside you, as your name also slides from my lips without my conscious awareness. My mind blank and yet filled with the sight of you the moment before my eyes had rolled inside my eyelids, due to the force of the feeling.

My arms roll about your waist, as my face buries again in your neck, your arms roll around mine, as if we are holding on for dear life.

I'm shaking, and my muscles almost give up on me, sated. You are also shaking I realise groggily, mind sluggish with the force of our climax.

I stagger on my feet, and take a soft step back: your legs wrap around my waist and I wonder where you got the force to do so, when I can't feel mine.

Before I realise it, I push a small amount of chakra to my knees as I fall on them on the floor, breath knocked out of both our set of lungs at impact.

I don't want to let go of you.

Your hands slide to my face again, pulling it from the nest on the crook of your neck, and your eyes, brimming with something that makes my heart clench and soar at the same time, tell me you don't want to let go either. I tilt my head, as you tilt yours, and our lips meet: it's not a rushed kiss. It's calm, mellow and sated. Sweet, speaking of something that transcends the act we just engaged in.

It's not a kiss tasting of end.

It's the kiss of my defeat, which tastes like the most prized victory.

It's a kiss of promise.

_There are no winners. There are no losers. In this moment, there is only __**"them"**__._

...

_The End  
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Thank you for reading.


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